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Sometimes, when Neil regresses, they have time to prepare for it. He tries to warn Andrew as soon as he feels it coming—usually he feels a fuzzy need at the back of his mind all day, or before he goes to bed, and he’ll let Andrew know. Andrew appreciates knowing, so they can get everything in order for Neil when he slips back into an age where he needs to be taken care of a little more.
But sometimes, it’s like this.
“Andrew,” Neil mumbles, and Andrew blinks awake for his eyes to meet Neil’s instantly. The sun isn’t even high enough to peek through the dorm blinds, and Andrew only has a second to fantasize about strangling his early riser boyfriend before Neil speaks again, his words slurring together.
“Sorry Andrew, I think I’m gonna. Slide real hard today. Soon. Head feels fuzzy.”
Andrew doesn’t bother chastising Neil for apologizing, not when he can tell it’s taking everything in Neil to get the words out coherently for him, when all he probably wants to do is stop thinking and be small. Andrew can’t think of anything that happened the previous night that might have triggered this, but it doesn’t matter; he just nods before heaving himself out of bed. Neil knows he is not leaving him.
He is nothing if not efficient: within seconds, he’s down the loft, hauling Kevin’s sleeping form up out of his bed, and dumping his body on the couch outside to a mumbled “whuhgh” from the guy.
“Taking your laptop today,” Andrew says considerately.
“Hhhgh,” Kevin replies.
Andrew grabs an apple juice box from the kitchen before returning to the bedroom, locking the door quietly behind him again to the sound of Kevin’s resumed snores. A quick glance up tells him his idiot is still fighting the regression, sitting up in the loft bed but listing to the side, and blinking his stupid blue eyes heavily.
“Come down,” Andrew instructs, not unkindly. He needs Neil on ground level before his motor skills plummet, so that he does not take a similar, more literal nose dive. “We are moving to the bottom bunk.”
Neil nods, clambering sluggishly out of the sheets and taking the ladder down one rung at a time. Andrew pretends like he isn’t hovering and spotting Neil as he does so, turning away once both Neil’s feet are safely on the tile floor.
“Put this on.” Andrew pushes his biggest, coziest, dark gray Minyard #3 hoodie and a pair of fleece sweatshorts into Neil’s arms. Neil makes a soft, delighted little noise that goes straight to Andrew’s heart, and he pretends like it didn’t do that either.
As Neil slips into his soft, warm clothes, Andrew snags Kevin’s laptop from his nightstand and fiddles with it. He turns around to see Neil swimming in the—in his—huge hoodie, and a pair of fuzzy bunny-printed socks he probably found on the floor.
Andrew reigns in the cute-aggression just in time to avoid throwing the juicebox he took from the kitchen at Neil; Neil probably wouldn’t be able to catch it in his current rapidly regressing state. Andrew sighs, jabbing the flimsy plastic straw through and handing it to him instead, like a responsible adult.
“You look cute, little rabbit.”
Neil beams, ducking his head to sip the juice and hide his pleased grin. Andrew feels himself relaxing at the sight of his little rabbit settling into easy comfort and happiness under his care.
Andrew sets the laptop at the foot of the bottom bunk and climbs in, sitting up against the headboard and pulling a stuffed animal smoothly out from where it’d been tucked between the mattress and the wall.
Neil coos as soon as he sees the overstuffed orange fox, a sweet little automatic noise, and Andrew knows he's stopped fighting the slide entirely. The boy’s eyes are huge and his hands clench and twist in the sleeves of his hoodie, an unconscious longing movement at the sight of the stuffed animal.
“Come here, it’s yours,” Andrew reminds him softly, holding it out. “Is ‘Neil’ okay today?”
Sometimes, with the way Neil’s memories and dissociation work, the age stuff gets mixed up with the identity stuff. Neil rarely regresses to the teenage years where he remembers going by many different names, but sometimes he gets in specific headspaces where he wants to be called Nathaniel. Those days are a little harder for the both of them to navigate, but Andrew can do it if he needs to.
Today, Neil nods in answer to Andrew’s question, eyes bright and locked onto the fox. He shuffles forward and into the bed, snatching the stuffed fox from Andrew’s hands and clutching it to his chest as he snuggles up against Andrew’s side, sliding down and curling in, finding the best position to feel small against Andrew’s broad muscles.
For a moment he seems to get lost in the soft sensations around him, humming and rocking gently from side to side on the soft comforter and stroking the fox’s soft fur in wonder, nuzzling the top of its head while his toes wiggle in his fuzzy socks.
“Good, Neil, there you go,” Andrew encourages, cupping the back of Neil’s neck. “Just relax. I’m here. You are safe.”
The simple reassurances seem to settle warmly in Neil, who smiles shyly into his fox. He reaches for Andrew’s other hand, looking up at him in question. Andrew nods, taking Neil’s hand in his and squeezing.
“Neil, can you tell me how old you are right now?”
Neil shrugs, tangling his fingers with Andrew’s and kicking his socked feet a little. Neil is often nonverbal as he settles into his younger headspace, getting more talkative as he gets comfortable or ages up slightly.
Andrew nods; he can figure it out.
“That’s okay,” he murmurs, and presses a kiss to the top of Neil’s head, pulling another happy hum from the boy. Andrew leans forward to press play on the laptop.
“Aristocats,” he informs Neil as the castle wipes onto the screen in front of them. Neil’s eyes get big.
“Kitty,” he breathes.
Andrew’s heart threatens something drastic.
“Yes. Kitty.”
Neil’s eyes stay round and awed, and from the pitch of his voice and Andrew’s frankly embarrassing familiarity with the different ways Neil Josten holds himself, Andrew is already pretty confident in pinning Neil’s age at around 4 years old today. He files this knowledge away to prepare himself for the day’s activities and his own behavior as little cartoon cats caper about and sing on screen.
The movie was a good choice: Neil is fully engaged and relaxed in being little, giggling uncontrollably at some scenes, gasping in trepidation at others, and singing along happily to “Ev’rybody Wants to Be a Cat.” He gets more talkative too, chattering at Andrew about how much he likes the way the kittens talk, and the musician cats, and, and, and…
(Andrew doesn’t let Neil’s age stop him from leaning down at certain parts and telling Neil that, “This depiction is offensive, we don’t approve of it now.” Neil nods very seriously, furrowing his brow to show his commitment to understanding. Andrew pats his head, letting his hand rest in the unruly curls. Let no one say he is not a responsible caregiver.)
Neil gets a little stuck in an echolalia loop with a kitten’s name, “Toulouse,” repeating it over and over and wiggling every time a character says it on screen. Andrew lets him, just petting his hair and making sure he drinks his apple juice. Neil seems to just like the way the syllables feel, and by the end he’s just mouthing it silently instead of saying it aloud.
When the movie is over, the sun is well and truly streaming through the blinds. It’s still only the morning though, with how early Neil had pulled them both awake.
“Well, little rabbit,” Andrew says, rubbing Neil’s shoulders. Neil likes a lot of gentle, reassuring touches as well as words when he’s small, and Andrew can give those to him today. “What next?”
Neil thinks, leaning back into Andrew's touch and petting his stuffed fox’s head shyly.
“Color,” he decides.
Andrew nods. “Crayons?”
“Yes! And–and markers?”
“And markers,” Andrew confirms.
“And, um…” Neil looks a little nervous now, fiddling with the paws of his fox. He looks self-conscious suddenly of requesting so much, something that happens a lot when he’s this age.
“Yes, Neil?” Andrew prods gently. There’s little he wouldn’t do to make sure Neil gets to experience the simple and gentle childhood neither of them got to have. He would tear cities apart just for—
“Bluey? ” Neil requests in a small voice and huge, pleading blue eyes.
Luckily for the cities of South Carolina, Bluey streams on the same service as Aristocats. The Mouse, Andrew thinks, is making a killing from the needs of age-regressed Neil Josten alone.
They put on Bluey, watching a few episodes while Neil giggles at the dogs’ antics and draws crayon-and-marker pictures of him and Andrew as cats. Andrew supervises, alternating between reading the latest mystery novel Renee gifted to him, and clumsily drawing foxes for Neil to color in when Neil gets tired of constructing lines.
It’s a good morning.
***
By the early afternoon, Andrew can tell Neil is getting drowsy, cuddled close and nodding off. He also knows there’s a backlog of homework to be worked on, and night practice with a tetchy Kevin to look forward to. As much as he appreciates taking advantage of free days in their schedule to watch cartoons and nap, they are unfortunately still college athletes with responsibilities.
“Neil,” Andrew says, and Neil blinks up at him sleepily from where he was dozing off against Andrew’s chest. “We have things to do later. Do you feel like you can be big again?”
Neil’s brow furrows, and he worries his lip.
“I want to,” he whispers. “But I… I don’t. It’s hard.”
The contradiction is so simple and childish that it tugs at Andrew’s heart. Coming back up is hard for Neil when he feels so safe and carefree in his younger headspace. If they don’t handle it right, he drops hard.
One of the first times, before either of them knew better, Neil had pulled himself up before he was ready to and without proper support, and had suffered the consequences. Neil had been a confused and distressed wreck for a week, regressing involuntarily on and off and emotionally spiraling and trying to keep it all hidden from Andrew. Andrew does not want a repeat experience.
The fact that Neil says he does want to age up again, though, makes this easier.
“I know, little rabbit,” Andrew says. The nickname, like every time, makes Neil melt. “I understand.”
Andrew rubs his back until Neil’s eyes droop again, and presses another kiss to the top of his head. Keeping his voice soft, he continues, “You’re doing well. How about a short nap, then I help you come back up?”
Neil nods, hugging the fox in his arms and mumbling some sleepy assent into his hoodie.
“What was that, little one?”
But Neil is already asleep, soft huffing breaths shifting the curls that have fallen over his face. Andrew’s heart clenches with something protective and tender. He brushes the curls away from Neil’s face, open and trusting beside him even in sleep, and tucks them behind his ear. He’ll finish his book, then wake Neil up.
***
Afternoon sun glows through the window when Andrew calls Neil’s name softly to wake him up. Andrew has a water bottle and a cup of hot, black coffee waiting on the nightstand, and a smoky incense stick burns on the sill.
“Mmn,” Neil says blearily. Andrew can tell he’s in the blurry space between ages and identities, where anything could potentially pull him in some direction. Neil rubs absently at the stuffed fox’s fur, comfort-seeking. Andrew rests a hand on the back of Neil’s neck and strokes his thumb there. Comfort is something Andrew is still learning, but he knows how to be solid and there for Neil.
“It’s 1PM, Neil,” he says, grounding Neil in the present, and makes sure he drinks some water before passing him the coffee mug.
Neil nods and sips slowly, sighing a little and leaning into Andrew’s touch on the back of his neck as he blinks his eyes with a little more clarity. Coffee helps him feel more grown-up, a drink firmly associated with being an adult. Andrew knows the incense helps too, comfortingly reminiscent of cigarette smoke but without the danger of memories of Mary that could go either way when Neil is in a vulnerable hazy state.
“I’m here, Neil, I have you,” Andrew says, steady and unwavering in his reassurance. “You did so well.”
Neil looks so relaxed and content, closing his eyes and humming as he mentally collects himself. Having dozed off before knowing that Andrew was going to help him come up afterwards makes the process that much easier, less of a shock to his system.
The next step is making sure there are grown-up activities planned that Neil actually looks forward to doing. This eliminates homework, and Andrew will not subject himself to Exy earlier than he absolutely has to.
Unfortunately, there are other compromises he knows he is capable of.
“Do you want to go for a run.” Andrew steels himself for what he is about to say next. “Together.”
The wide-eyed look Neil turns on him rivals his earlier awe of Aristocats. He knows better than to question Andrew, though, and risk pushing him out of this rare offer.
“Yes.”
Neil scrambles up, shucking off his oversized hoodie and soft sweats and finding his running clothes with an ease that assures Andrew he is well on his way to aging up and staying there. Andrew grimaces, swinging his own legs over the side of the bed and cursing the day Neil Josten came into his life, for the result that he is currently willingly going on a run with him.
Neil, now out of his fuzzy bunny socks and in a sensible athletic pair, looks at him adoringly from where he bounces by the door. Andrew has to look away.
“Andrew.” Andrew’s gaze returns to him. Inexorable thing. Neil’s eyes soften. “Thank you.”
Andrew huffs, allowing his gaze to trace the warm, relaxed lines of Neil’s face, bathed in golden afternoon light. When the sight has settled into his memory, he looks away again to find his own pair of running socks.
“Always,” he murmurs.
Neil smiles.